I’ve always had a type A personality, even as a little girl. I liked being the best, being on top of things 100% of the time, and being in complete control. Growing up, this manifested as perfect grades. I slaved over homework in order to have the perfect report card. I was perfectionistic in other ways too. I never wanted to compete in sports because I knew I couldn’t win. If I was bad at sports, why bother trying? I avoided anything I knew I couldn’t completely succeed in. Continue reading “What are you waiting for?”
God won’t give you anything you can’t handle.
We’ve all heard that platitude many times. And I used to believe the sentiment.
When I had my first mental breakdown, I got myself through with the idea that I would be strong enough to handle what had happened to me. Continue reading “Is it true that God won’t give you anything you can’t handle?”
She told us there was no heartbeat. She said it matter-of-factly, in a quiet apologetic voice. I felt my stomach instantly drop, emotion immediately clogging my throat. I wanted to tell her to check again—oh, please, please check again. I could see it right there on the screen, right there in front of me. How could the baby be dead?
How do you feel?
When I’m feeling low, it’s really hard to answer the “How are you?” question. Most people, when they ask that question, are not looking for an actual answer. When the clerk at the grocery store asks me how I’m doing, she doesn’t exactly have the time to hear me list every single one of my problems. She’s paid to swipe my bag of Bolthouse carrots across the scanner—the “How are you?” is just polite. (Duh.) “How are you?” is simply the cultural acknowledgment of another’s existence. But when I’m depressed, being asked that question stings a little.
Lazarus died twice.
We’re all familiar with the first time—when Jesus showed up and triumphed over death—and I think it’s a story worth revisiting time and time again. Any time a guy rises from the dead, it’s worth at least taking note. (Especially when it involves Jesus.)
But not until recently—thanks to my ever-reflective husband— did I consider that Lazarus died again. I wonder if he was scared about it: knowing that this time, there would be no coming back. Or was he less afraid? Continue reading “Healing”